They had not seen Zeno, and even I was not sure exactly where he was. They could see three of us … how many more were there?
There was no use losing a good thing, so I played the hand out. “Zeno,” I said, “you’ve gone and spoiled a good thing. Between you and the boys on the river bank, I figured to collect some scalps.”
Soto did not like it. In fact, he did not like it even a little. He did not know whether there was anybody on the river bank or not, nor did he like what he would have to do to find out.
He knew there must be men with the cattle, and that, had they seen him coming or been warned in time, they might easily be sheltered by the high bank and waiting to cut Soto and his men to doll rags.
“I regret, senior”—Soto smiled stiffly—“the shortness of our visit. When we come again there will be more of us … and some friends of ours, the Comanches. You would do well to drive Miguel Sandoval from your camp.”
“There was a grave back yonder,” I said, “of a Mexican we found and buried.”
Soto smiled again. “A good trick … only we turned back and opened the grave.
There was no body.”
He turned his horse and walked it slowly away from camp, but we knew he would come back, and we knew we were in trouble.
“All right,” I said. “A quick breakfast and then we move out.”
During the night several steers and a cow had managed to make the river, and rejoined the herd. There was no time to estimate the loss of cattle on the drive, although obviously several hundred head were gone.
We pushed on, keeping up a steady move, pausing only at noon to water in the Pecos, whose route we were following. One or more of us trailed well behind or on the hills to right or left, scouting for the enemy.
The earth was incredibly dry and was covered over vast areas with a white, saline substance left from the alkali in the area. Wherever there had been water standing, the ground was white, as if from snow.
Pa fell back and rode beside me. “We’re outnumbered, Dan,” he said. “They’ll come with fifty or sixty men.”
We saw not a living thing. Here and there were dead cattle, dried to mere bones and hide, untorn by wolves, which showed us that not even those animals would try to exist in such a place. By night/all the-e was no grass to be found, so we brought the wagons together on a low knoll, with the cattle behind it.
There was a forest of prickly pear, which cattle will eat, and which is moist enough so they need little water. Half a dozen of us went out and singed the spines from bunches of pear with torches, and it was a pretty sight to see the torches moving over the darkening plain. But the cattle fed.
With daybreak, the wind rose and the sky was filled with dust, and clouds of dust billowed along the ground, filling the air and driving against the face with stinging force. The sun became a hall of red, then was obscured, and the cattle moved out with the wind behind them, herded along the course of the Pecos, but far enough off to avoid its twistings and turnings.
By nightfall the dust storm had died down, but the air was unnaturally cold. Under the lee of a knoll the wagons drew up and a fire was built.
Zebony rode in and stepped down from his horse. Ma Foley and Mrs. Stark were working over a meal. There was little food left, but a few of the faltering cattle had been killed, and some of the beef was prepared. The flour was almost all gone, and no molasses was left.
Zeno Yearly came up and joined us. There was a stubble of beard on his lean jaws, and his big sad eyes surveyed us with melancholy. “Reminded me of a time up on the Canadian when I was headed for Colorado. We ran into a dust storm so thick we could look up betwixt us and the sun and see the prairie dogs diggin’ their holes.”
Squatting by the fire, I stared into the flames, and I was doing some thinking. Pa was relying on me, with Tap gone, and I hadn’t much hope of doing much. The herd was all we had, and the herd was in bad shape. We had a fight facing us whenever Felipe Soto and his Comancheros caught up with us, and we were shorthanded.
We had lost several hundred head and could not afford to lose more. And from what Conchita and Miguel said, we were heading into a country where we might find more trouble than we wanted.
We were almost out of grub, and there was no use hunting. Whatever game there had been around here had drifted out, and all we could do was keep driving ahead.
Our horses had come out of it better than most, for many a herd crossing the Horsehead had wound up with most of the hands walking, their horses either dead or stolen by Indians. About all a man could do was go on; but I had found that many a problem is settled if a man just keeps a-going.
It wasn’t in me to sell Felipe Soto short. He was a tough man, and he would come back. They did not want any talk of Comancheros or of the Palo Duro Canyon to get around … there already was opposition enough from the New Mexicans themselves.
“We’ll push on the herd,” I told Zebony. “We should reach the Delaware soon.”
It was amazing how the water and the short rest had perked up the cattle. There had been little grass, but the prickly pear had done wonders for them, and they moved out willingly enough. It was as if they, too, believed the worst of the trip was past. Knowing something of the country that lay before us, I was not so sure.
We closed up the herd and kept the wagons close on the flank. Zeno Yearly and Freeman Squires fell back to bring up the rear and do the scouting. Pa led off, and part of the time was far out ahead of us, scouting for ambush or tracks. The rest of us kept the herd closed up and we moved ahead at a steady gait.
Toyah Creek, when we reached it, was only a sandy wash, so we went through and pushed on. As we traveled, we gathered the wood we found where wagons had broken down and been abandoned, for there was nothing along the trail for fuel but buffalo chips and occasional mesquite, most of which had to be dug out of the ground to final anything worth burning.
The coolness disappeared and again it became incredibly hot. The heat rising from the herd itself, close-packed as it was, was almost unbearable.
Conchita rode over to join me.
“We have talked, Miguel and I,” she said. “You protected us, or we should have been killed.”
“It was little enough.”
“We did not expect it. Miguel … he did not expect to be helped, because he is a Mexican.”
“Might make a difference to some folks, not to us. When we first came into this country—I mean when Pa first came—he would never have made out but for help from Mexican neighbors.”
“We have talked of you, and there is a place we know—it is a very good place. There is danger from Indians, but there is danger everywhere from them.”
“Where is this place?”
“We will show you. It lies upon a route used by the padres long ago. By traders also.
But there is water, there is good grass, and I think you can settle there without trouble.” “Where will you go?”
“To my home. To Miguel’s mother and his wife.”
“He did not mention a wife. I thought maybe … Miguel and you …”
“No, senior. He is married. We are grown up in the same house, but we are friends only. He has been a very good brother to me, senior.”
“Like Tap and me,” I said. “We got along pretty good.”
All through the day we rode together, talking of this thing and that. The cattle moved steadily. By nightfall we had twelve miles behind us.
There was a chance the dust storm might have wiped out miles of our tracks, and that might help a little. But in the arid lands men are tied to water, and they must go where water is, and so their trails can be found even if lost.
Ira Tilton was out on the north flank of the drive as we neared the last stop we would make along the Pecos. From that point we would cut loose and drive across country toward Delaware Creek.
Toward sundown he shot an antelope and brought it into camp. It was mighty little meat for such a crowd of folks, but we were glad to get it.
That night when the firelight danced on the weathered faces of the cowhands, we sat close around the fire and we sang the songs we knew, and told stories, and yarned.
There was a weariness on us, but we were leaving the Pecos, and no cowhand ever liked the Pecos for long. i Firelight made the wagon shadows flicker. Ma Foley came and sat with us, and the firelight lit the gold of Conchita’s hair to flame, to a red-gold flame that caught the light as she moved her head.
. I Rose Sandy came to the fire, too, sitting close to Tom, and very quiet. But I do not think there was censure among us for what she had done, for nobody knew better than we that the flesh was weak.
Pa-was there, listening or talking quietly, his fine-cut features looking younger than he was.
“We will find a place,” he said, “and we will settle. We will make of the Kaybar a brand we can be proud of.”
There was hope in all of us, but fear too. Standing up at last, I looked at Conchita and sae rose too, and we walked back from the fire together. Miguel stood by his wagon, and when we passed him, he said, “‘Vaya con Dios.’” Freeman Squires shook me out of a sleep and I sat up and groped for my hat. It was still … the stars were gone and there were clouds and a feeling of dampness in the air. Stamping into my boots, I picked up my gun and slung the belt around me, then tucked the other behind my belt.
Then I reached for the Patterson, and as I did so there was a piercing yell far out on the plains, and then a whole chorus of wild Comanche yells and the pound of hoofs.
The cattle came up with a single lunge and broke into a wild stampede. I saw Free Squires riding like mad to cut them off, saw his horse stumble and go down and the wave of charging, wild-eyed cattle charge over him.
And then I was on one knee and shooting.
A Comanche jumped his horse into camp and my first shot took him from the saddle.
I saw Pa roll out of bed and fire a shotgun from a sitting position.
In an instant the night was laced with a red pattern of gunfire, streaks of flame stabbing the darkness in the roar of shooting.
Zebony Lambert ran from the shelter of a wagon, blazing away with a six-shooter.
I saw an Indian try to ride him down and Zeb grabbed the Indian and swung up behind him and they went careering off into the night, fighting on the horse’s back.
A big man leaped past me on a gray horse–it was the blond man who had been with Webb Holt when he was killed.
A horse struck me with his shoulder and knocked me rolling, a bullet spat dirt into my mouth as it struck in front of me.
Again I started to get up and I saw Pa firing from his knee. There was blood on his face, but he was shooting as calmly as if in a shooting gallery. Ben Cole was down, all sprawled out on the ground, and I saw Jim Poor rise suddenly from the ground and run to a new position, with bullets all around him.
Suddenly I saw Bud Caldwell charge into camp, swing broadside, and throw down on Pa. I flipped a six-shooter and shot him through the chest. The bullet hit him dead center and he was knocked back in the saddle and the horse cut into a run. Turning on my heel I fired again from the hip and Bud Caldell fell on his face in the dirt and turned slowly over.
And as it had started, it ended, suddenly and in stillness.
The wagontop on one of the wagons was in flames, so I grabbed a bucket of water and sloshed it over the flames, and then jumped up and ripped the canvas from the frame and hurled it to the ground. A bullet clipped the wagon near me and I dropped again and lay still on the ground.
Our herd was gone. Freeman Squires was surely dead, and it looked like Ben Cole was, too.
Nothing moved. Lying still in the darkness, I fed shells into my six-shooter and tried to locate the Patterson.
Somewhere out in the darkness I heard a low moan, and then there was silence. The smell of dust was in my nostrils, an ache in my bones; the gun butt felt good against my palm. Behind me I could hear the faint rustle of water among the thin reeds along the bank, but nothing else moved.
They were out there yet, I knew that, and to move was to die.
What had happened to Conchita? To Ma Foley? Where was Pa?
In the distance, thunder rumbled … the night was vastly empty, and vastly still.
A cool wind blew a quick, sharp gust through the camp, scattering some of the fire, rolling a cup along the ground.
With infinite care, I got a and fiat on the ground and eased myself up and back, away from the firelight. After a moment of waiting I repeated the move.
Thunder rolled … there was a jagged streak of lightning, and then the rain came.
It came with a rush, great sheets of rain flung hard against the dusty soil, dampening it, soaking it all in one smashing onslaught.
When the lightning flared again, I saw my father lying with his eyes wide to the sky, and then the lightning was gone, and there was only the rumble of thunder and the rush of rain falling.
Chapter Five.
In a stumbling run I left the place where I lay and ran to my father’s side. He was dead. He had been shot twice through the body and had bled terribly.
Taking the rifle that lay beside him, I leaped up and ran to the nearest wagon and took shelter beneath it. If any of the others lived, I did not know, but my father was dead, our cattle gone, our hopes destroyed, and within me, suddenly and for the first time, I knew hatred.
Under the wagon, in partial shelter, I tried to think ahead. What would Soto and his men do? All my instincts told me to get away, as far away as possible before the morning came, for unless I was much mistaken, they would come to loot the wagons.
How many others were dead? And did any lie out there now, too grievously wounded to escape? If so, I must find them. Knowing the Comanche, I could leave no man who had worked with us to fall helpless into their hands.
Carefully, I wiped my guns dry. The Patterson still lay out there somewhere, but I had my father’s breech-loading Sharps. The shotgun he had also had must still be lying out there.
The storm did not abate. The rain poured down and the Pecos was rising. It was a cloudburst, or something close to it, and the more I considered it the more I began to believe that my enemies might have fled for shelter, if they knew of any. Or perhaps they had gone off after our cattle, for without doubt they would take the herd.
Suddenly, in the wagon above me, there was a faint stir of movement. Then thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning flashed, and on the edge of the river bank, not twenty yards off, stood two bedraggled figures. I knew them at once. Tim Foley and his wife!
They lived, at least. And who was in the wagon? One of us, I was sure.., yet could I be sure? Perhaps it was some Comanche who had started to loot the wagon.
Carefully, I eased out from under the wagon. The rain struck me like a blow, the force of the driven rain lashing viciously at my face. It would be completely dark within the wagon, and I would be framed against the lightning, but I must know. The Foleys were coming, and they must not walk into a trap.
One foot I put on a horizontal spoke of the wheel, and, holding to the edge of the wagon with my left hand, I swung myself suddenly up and into the wagon. There was a startled gasp. “Conchita?”
“Dan!. Oh, Dan! You’re alive!”
“More or less. Are you all right?”
“Of course, but this man is hurt. He has been shot.” Risking a shot myself, I struck a light. It was Zeno Yearly, and there was a graze along his skull and a crease along the top of his shoulder. Evidently the bullet had struck him when he was lying down in the wagon, and grazing the side of his skull, it had burned his shoulder. He had bled freely, but nothing more.
The rain continued without l
etup, and through the roar of the rain on the canvas wagon cover we heard the splash of footsteps, and then Ma Foley and Tim climbed into the wagon. Zeno sat up, holding his head and staring around him.
“It’s safe, I think, to light a candle,” I said. “They have gone or they would have shot when I struck the match.”
When a candle was lighted I rummaged in the wagon for ammunition.
“Here,” Tim Foley said, holding out the Patterson, “I found it back there.”
Taking the gun, I passed the Sharps over to him, and began cleaning the Patterson, wiping the rain and mud from it, and removing the charges.
“Are we all that’s left?” Ma Foley asked plaintively. “Are they all gone?”
“Pa’s dead, and I saw Squires go down, ahead of the stampede. I saw Ben Cole fall.”
“Jim Poor got down under the bank. I think he was unhurt then, if the river didn’t get him.”
Huddled together, we waited for the morning, and the rain continued to fall. At least, there would be water. We must find and kill a steer, if we could find a stray. And somehow we must get to the Rio Grande, or to the Copper Mines.
For we had been left without food. What had not been destroyed in the brief fire in the other wagon was undoubtedly damaged by the rain, although I hoped the damage would be slight. And there had been little enough, in any event.
Our remuda was gone, the horses stolen or scattered, and the chance of catching any of them was slight indeed. The trek that now lay before us would in many ways be one of the worst that anyone could imagine, and we had women along.
The responsibility was mine. These were our people, men who worked for us, and my father was dead. In such a case, even with the herd gone, I could not, dared not surrender leadership. Now, more than ever, we needed a strong hand to guide us out of this desert and to some place where we might get food and horses to ride.
Fear sat deep within me, for I had encountered nothing like this before, and I feared failure, and failure now meant death . . at least, for the weakest among us.
All the night long, the rain fell. The Pecos was running bank-full, and so would be the arroyos leading to it. Our way west was barred now by one more obstacle, but, once the sun came out, the arroyos would not run for long, and their sandy basins, long dry, would drink up the water left behind. Only in the tinajas, the natural rock cisterns, would there be water.
Killoe (1962) Page 9
